


Satisfaction, or Jeeves and the Problem of the Pesky Paisley Pyjamas

by Cohava



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Bondage, I wrote Jooster bondage, Kinktober 2018, Lack of proper consent negotiation, M/M, author is very late on her prompts, but this is Jeeves we're talking about, it all works out, surprise bondage, what else is there to say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 01:18:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16295543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cohava/pseuds/Cohava
Summary: Kinktober Day#9 (yup)Prompt: BondageJeeves is displeased with Bertie's new favourite nightwear. One could say he is at the end of his rope...(Not me. I am a classy lass and I do NOT do horrible puns)





	Satisfaction, or Jeeves and the Problem of the Pesky Paisley Pyjamas

As soon as I woke up, I detected that something was amiss.

Oh! Dreadfully sorry. It seems that I medias-ed the res once again, as I am wont to do often as I write. It’s a bit of a pickle, you see, because the Faithful Readers reading this story—not that there should be any, since this one is a bit of a scandalous tale—will likely be scratching the head and asking themselves ‘What the deuce is he on about?’.

The thing is, this is the same exact state of mind I found myself in when, one fateful morning, I woke up in my bed and, as I mentioned, I came to the conclusion that something was not quite right; the snail was not on the thorn, as it were. In fact, it appeared that the snail was snugly tied around Bertram’s left wrist, and another snail on his right wrist, and another couple of the buggers around my ankles: in short, I woke up to find myself thoroughly tied to the bed and, understandably, a bit miffed about the whole sitch.

Clearly, the situation called for Jeeves, and so did I.

“Jeeves!” I called. Said J. ambled in my bedroom at what I can only describe as a leisurely pace, which did nothing for my spirits. I mean to say, when one wakes up to find himself tied in literal knots, one would expect a tad more haste from one gentleman’s personal gentleman! But I digress.

“You called, sir?”

“Yes, Jeeves, I did. Good morning, by the way.”

“Good morning, sir. It appears to be an overcast day, Sir, with a light breeze coming in from North-East…”

“I don’t mean to interrupt, Jeeves, but perhaps we could save the weather forecast for later, eh?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“I say, Jeeves, you don’t happen to notice anything strange about my person?”

Jeeves dutifully looked the old corpus over from head to toe and back to the head again.

“If I may be so forward, Sir, you appear to be wearing some sort of clownish garment that one might acquire from a traveling circus. Sir.”

The light dawned. The shoe dropped. In short, I had an epilepsy! No, not epilepsy… epiphany, that’s the chap.

“Jeeves!” I ejaculated. “I see what this is all about! I say, this is dashed underhand, old chap. Really, I expected more finesse from you. I am extremely disappointed!”

“Sir?”

“Do not, ‘Sir’ me, Jeeves! You can’t fool me. You made your feelings clear on Bertram’s spiffing new pyjamas more than once, but I didn’t think you’d stoop so low!”

“I have no idea what you mean, Sir. Although, now that you mention it, may I suggest that your cobalt-striped pyjamas might have been a more sensible attire for the night?”

“Jeeves, you bally tied me to the bed! I do not feel like being sensible. If a man can’t wear his orange, pink and purple paisley pyjamas in the privacy of his own home without his own valet sneaking in like a thief in the night and tying him to the bed like some sort of sinister boy-scout, then…”

Now, many of my friends and acquaintances will testify that B. W. Wooster is an eloquent man. I was just getting started, and picking up steam as I went. I have no doubts that, had I been allowed to finish my impassioned speech, Jeeves would have been reduced to tears as he apologised to the Young Master and freed him as he swore never again to make use of this new, deplorable tactic. However, just as I was about to go off on a tangent about boy-scouts and how sinister they are as a whole, Jeeves silenced me with a simple, dare I say pedestrian but nonetheless effective method: meaning, with the careful application of his fingers to my privates. 

Between you and me, everybody agrees that hitting below the belt is dashed unsportsmanlike, but I will tell you this: tickling under the belt is unspeakably worse. I say tickling because Jeeves, the devil, wouldn’t even deign to apply his whole hand to the paisley pattern that had caused such strife between us but, being a paragon, he knew how to use his fingertips to obtain the desired effect on this Wooster. 

I believe at this point in the proceedings I made some sort of sound which, if I remember correctly, is best described as ‘Gah!’. 

(I asked Jeeves, and he confirms that yes, I did indeed say ‘Gah!’. Undignified, but there you have it.)

Normally, at this conjuncture I would have sit up to take a more active part in the activities, pulling my man on the bed and initiating a vigorous disrobing. If memory serves, I did attempt to do so but alas, the restraints were still firmly in place. I ended up wriggling ungracefully like one of Gussie’s newts, which is not an image anyone wants to conjure while in the midst of amorous activities. Yet a rummy thing happened to me: even as I groaned, frustrated by my forced immobility, I felt my arousal increase tenfold. I couldn’t tell you why, since this is exactly the kind of sitch. where a man should like to be able to use each and every one of his limbs, but I won’t lie: it was frustrating and bally exciting at the same time.

Jeeves, for his part, stood beside the bed and wore his valet face perfectly—he was the image of composure and decorum, if you ignored the hand that was still endeavouring to satisfy the Y. M. in a decidedly unorthodox way.

I moaned. I pleaded. I offered opera tickets and Spinoza’s autograph. The man skillfully brought me just close enough to the grand finale to reduce Bertram to a babbling bundle of nerves but would not give it the final push and I, being as I said above rather tied up, could not help myself. I would have given half of my left arm to be allowed release (and indeed suspected I would have to, since these dastardly knots were cutting off my circulation and I had gone numb below the elbow) but a man has his pride. I would not, could not give up my pyjamas. I would show Jeeves that the Woosters are made of sterner stuff. 

I must have communicated my intentions to Jeeves, somehow—via incoherent mumbles but nevertheless making myself clear that every man has a hill he will die of cerulean family jewels on, and the pyjamas were mine. My hill, that is. he gave a nearly inaudible sigh, and acquiesced.

“Very well, Sir.”

Well, I was chuffed. It’s not every day that one wins a battle of wits with a Jeeves, and i could not suspect a trick, because as he admitted defeat his grip became firmer and faster and he did something marvelous with his thumb that had me writhing and gasping and climaxing on the spot. 

I’m sure you, imaginary readers, being men and women and newts of this world, know exactly how one feels after a spiffing, top-notch orgasm like that. A bit drowsy and floaty and heavy all at once, and deliciously relaxed. Spent, I stared at the ceiling with a dumb sort of half, open mouthed smile that Jeeves is always kind enough not to remark upon. I mumbled something along the lines of: “Jeeves, you are a marvel.” I even forgot about my knotted up extremities. It was fantastic. 

“Oh, dear.”

Jeeves said, breaking through my doze. I looked at him through my lashes. 

“What is it, Jeeves?”

“I fear your pyjamas are irreparably ruined, Sir.” 

I followed his gaze to my lap and I had to admit that, yes, there was a very large, very damp spot of what we shall here call Wooster sauce marring the cheery paisley pattern. 

“Rum,” I said. “Are you sure that nothing can be done about this, Jeeves?”

“Regrettably, no. Sir,” he replied. I have to say, he looked suspiciously free of any regret whatsoever. In any other moment, I would have argued and I’d have had harsh words with him, but our morning encounter had been so thoroughly satisfying that I felt the pyjamas would be sacrificed to a worthy cause.

“Oh, very well, Jeeves,” I conceded. “You can throw them away. For now, would you mind untying me and drawing me a bath? I’m starting to feel a little sore.”

“Very good, Sir.”

“Oh, and Jeeves?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“You should keep the ropes. They might come in handy again.”

“It will be my pleasure, Sir.”


End file.
